


my feet could step and walk

by orangesparks



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They favored seafood-heavy joints on Fridays.</i>
</p><p>Stan and Peggy's burgeoning friendship, post-S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my feet could step and walk

They favored seafood-heavy joints on Fridays. Made it easier not to be tempted.   
  
(When he first discovered they had that in common, he'd wondered if her family was as naggingly strict as his about marrying within the faith. The vindictive part of him truly hoped so.)   
  
"I don't really go much, anymore," Peggy said, matter-of-factly. Her lack of eye contact helped cement that trademark Catholic guilt.   
  
"Your family know that?"  
  
Faint color rose in her cheekbones. No, the Olson clan was obviously unaware.   
  
"I work most of the time on weekends, anyway." She shrugged, taking a sip of her whiskey. It still amazed him how many of those she could put away without feeling the consequences. "What about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"You don't seem like the type to wake up early and sit through an hour of Latin."   
  
"Really."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, she stared him down until he smirked.  
  
"Fine. Easter and Christmas." He paused, consideringly. "Sometimes Good Friday, just to shut 'em up."   
  
"Thought so." If she got any smugger, he was going to buy her a bracelet with the word engraved on it. She speared the filet of sole with her fork. "Been thinking much about Mountain Dew?"  
  
Work was her favorite lunch topic, of course. With those pipsqueaks Joey and Danny both gone, he had little help in steering the conversation anywhere else. Besides. These days, it would've been less depressing to discuss the death of one's favorite pet.   
  
She took his lack of response as disinterest, sighing heavily.   
  
"Come on. You know how picky they are, and the fact that they already want a  _new_  campaign... you won't take this seriously until we're packing our things in filing crates, will you?"  
  
Bullshit. He'd been tiptoeing around the damn place the past few weeks as much as anybody else.   
  
But then it occurred to him - she didn't know the way his chest had seized up with panic the afternoon she got called into Draper's office, when unemployment started catching like goddamn winter flu.   
  
He cleared his throat; now it was his turn to avoid eye contact.   
  
"Hey. I like inventing new cocktails."   
  
"You like drinking them. It's not the same thing."  
  
"Says the girl with the whiskey tumbler glued to her fingers."   
  
She ignored him, draining her glass. He could not  _wait_  until the day she finally had one too many and he had to carry her back, legs draped over his arm, through the elevator doors across the SCDP threshold.  
  
Not that anyone would be left on their floor to take notice.   
  
Eyeing his poached salmon, he wished he'd ordered something less offensive-looking. Looked like the thing had crawled onto his plate and died, maybe as an act of revenge for every carnival goldfish he'd accidentally killed as a kid.   
  
He'd have sold his soul for a steak - medium rare, drenched in Tobasco, enough black pepper to be eye-wateringly obnoxious. Like many things in life, that dream seemed too far away.   
  
She seemed to read his mind, signaling for the check the moment he set his fork down.   
  
Walking back to the office was always some damn Olympic event with her. He was no slouch in his high school running back days, but she made him feel positively  _elderly_  sometimes. Her heels clicked loudly on the sidewalk, keeping a steady, almost militant rhythm, and he nearly had to jog to keep up.  
  
"Would you slow down?"  
  
"We're going to be late."  
  
He checked his watch. "C'mon, it's barely even ten to one. Late for a Girl Scout meeting?"  
  
The crosswalk sign blinked red across the street. She stopped, turning to look at him, and he raised his hands in supplication.   
  
" _Kidding_. Christ."   
  
This, of all things, made her laugh. Huh. He wondered when she'd started laughing with him instead of at him.   
  
"Sometimes, I think it would be better to just order in."  
  
"Please. You'd sit at your desk and suck on Lifesavers for an hour if I didn't drag you out." Stating it like this, to her, somehow made him feel proud. She allowed a small smile.   
  
"True."  
  
Biting her lip, she glanced back at the crosswalk. He was curious, not for the first time, what would happen to this little tradition if SCDP actually went under and they were no longer tied together by work. The thought made his stomach lurch.   
  
"Light's changed."  
  
She brushed her hand over the crook of his arm, nudging him along, and a memory - something small,  _stupid_  (her nails grazing his chest through his shirt, that day she'd shoved him away in their office) - jolted to his brain.  
  
He wanted to say something while they were still outside where it was bright, and loud. Before they were back inside that graveyard of an office. He bit his tongue instead, wincing. He'd burnt it at lunch earlier. Still stung. 


End file.
